


Pity I couldn't share yours.

by Twiddlesticks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, certain details from the book, joint possession of a corporeal form, oblique references to Milton, the Bentley is spared, unstable fusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 05:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twiddlesticks/pseuds/Twiddlesticks
Summary: Aziraphale would prefer possessing a body that doesn't have a chance of going up like a science experiment on contact, especially when the situation is so urgent. Crowley, however, is drunk, and therefor in a mood to challenge probability.- - -A little ditty written for my sister, who wondered what it would be like if Aziraphale just possessed Crowley at the bar. Something of a thank-you for convincing me to watch this lovely show.





	Pity I couldn't share yours.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Girlwithgoggles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girlwithgoggles/gifts).

“I just need to find a receptive body,” said the angel, “Which is turning out to be rather difficult, actually.” 

“Ah, yeah…” replied the demon, distractedly.

“Heh… P-pity I couldn’t share yours!” the corners of the angel’s mouth twitched. It was a small, sheepish motion, “‘Would… probably explode.”

The demon nodded, “Yeah…”

The angel was just about to continue when the demon’s eyebrows knit.

“Wait, hang on,” he said, leaning forward, “Maybe not.”

“What?”

“Maybe we wouldn’ explode. ‘Said yourself we’re from the same stock.”

“Yes, but you are–“

“Know’m fallen. But s’not ‘sif you’re made of holy water ooorr or cons’cra… conser… church ground.”

“Well, no, but–“

“Let’s try it. Let’s try it, angel! ’S the end of the world! There’s nothing to lose!”

“But I don’t think–“

“Yes, good, no more thinking. Either we die here or we die in the war. At least one way we’re together, eh?”

There was a small silence. Perhaps he’d said too much. Or perhaps not.

“Right…Well. I-I suppose you make a good point. Sober up, now, I’m coming in.”

“Wipe your feet first.”

Crowley shut his eyes and did his best to wring every drop of Talisker out of his system. Meanwhile, the Principality Aziraphale composed himself and tried to focus. He’d never possessed anyone before. He supposed this might be easier than trying it on a human; human souls were wired up differently to their bodies. Sort of attached. Muscling in next to one might be difficult, and possibly dangerous. On the other hand, Corporeal Incarnations were much more roomy.

Bracing himself, Aziraphale zeroed in on an entry point, and willed himself forwards. 

Possession felt rather like soaking into something. His essence filtered first through the outer material shell, and then hit the inner, mental wall. It was this wall that barred access to a full possession, and not simply a temporary residence. The wall yielded tentatively, stretching a little, then pushed Aziraphale in all at once, as if he’d squeezed through a block of jelly.

And then he could see out of eyes again. He could feel things, too. It was like putting on a jumpsuit. His arms slid into the sleeves, and his legs into the trousers, and, oh. There was a wooden seat under him that was digging into his pelvis something fierce. Ouch! There was no padding there at all! He was narrower, too, and lighter, and… something dormant just below the surface, dutifully resting until needed. Something… scaly. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale felt a warm presence beside him. His hand jumped to his chest, unbidden.

“Crowley?”

“Ah! Ha! Told you! Told you I wouldn’t explode!”

“Ah! Yes– th-this is actually better than I expected!”

Crowley’s body lurched to its feet as Aziraphale yanked him up.

“Oi!” shouted Crowley, “What are you doing?!”

“The antichrist! We have to stop the antichrist, remember? I’m not in here for a jolly hello– there’s work to be done! Now– my bookshop, we need to get to my bookshop!”

Crowley’s body staggered towards the door. Such long legs! It was a wonder he didn’t trip.

“It’s– Angel, it-it burned down,” choked Crowley, trying to wrest control back from the other, “I-it’s all gone…”

His body stopped. 

“…All..? All gone?”

“…Yeah.”

This was enough to slow Aziraphale down. Crowley steered himself back towards the table.

“…I got this, though. Took it with me. Souvenir.”

He picked up the lone, battered copy of Nife and Accurate Prophefies from the table, and his hands quickly clenched.

“Ooh! Oh, you clever demon, you!” Aziraphale squealed, stretching Crowley’s thin mouth into an entirely too-big grin, “This is exactly what I needed! Quick, quick! Where’s your car?”

Aziraphale felt a strong surge of warmth next to him and found himself marching out of the bar. The bartender behind them heaved a deep sigh of relief and put down the phone, only two nines dialled. 

Sliding into the Bentley, Crowley shut the door with a slam and revved up the engine.

“Oh, I’ve never been in the driver’s seat before,” twittered Aziraphale from just beside him.

“Quick ground rules, angel,” said Crowley, sharply, as he felt Aziraphale reach for his fingers, “While you’re in me, and I’m in my car, you don’t do anything.”

“Oh. Well! I wasn’t going t–“

“I’m serious.”

There was a squeal as the Bentley tore down the road.

“Am I allowed to give you directions?” asked the angel, petulantly.

“Yes,” growled the demon. 

He was rapidly losing hope of this little close-quarters-tomfoolery being any fun.

“Right. We need to head to a little village called Taddfield,” said Aziraphale, settling in as the scenery past the front window blurred. 

Somehow, from in here, the customary anxiety that came with these car-rides was much diminished. He wasn’t sure if it was the proximity to Crowley’s body or Crowley’s presence that made him feel safer. Finishing off the directions, he decided to compose himself and take stock of things.

He knew where the antichrist was, all right. But as to how to defeat him… There were no Daggers of Megiddo conveniently on hand, nor any Flaming Swords or Celestial Lightning. Not even a pocket knife. But the antichrist was… well, at least partly human, in a way. He had a body. Surely they could improvise? They’d probably have to. Hell, he’d beat the thing to death with his own two wings like a brooding swan if he had to. A small twinge of guilt squeezed his conscience. 

‘It’s for the greater good,’ he assured himself, as he so often did, ‘Sometimes you must lend Weight to a Moral Argument.’

“Hey, angel.”

A casual voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Yes, Crowley?” he replied, vaguely.

“How badly do we want to get to Taddfield?”

“Terribly,” said Aziraphale, shaking himself out of his musings, “Why do you a–AAAHH–!”

Before them, there was a sheer wall of raging orange flame towering over the highway, consuming the path ahead. Beside them, a horrible, billowing, growing mass of shadow and maggots was beginning to manifest into the passenger side seat.

“CROWLEY WHAT IS THAT,” Aziraphale shrilled, spiritually recoiling from the foul apparition.

“Crowley,” echoed the emerging spectre, “It’s over, Crowley.”

“Ah, hello Hastur. Did you have a good time in the Ansaphone?” Crowley spoke as casually as he had just a moment ago. 

“There’s nowhere to go,” growled Hastur, bits of his shabby wig flaking off and drifting onto the upholstery, “Except back to Hell.”

“Oooor the big flamey death ribbon,” countered Crowley, popping an index finger off the wheel and pointing ahead.

“What? NO–“ yelped Aziraphale, just as Hastur said “Give up, already! There’s no way you’ll be able to survive that!”

“Ahh but I’m feeling lucky today,” said Crowley, and this time Aziraphale felt the corners of their lips stretch into a wide, evil smile. 

Then their foot pounded on the gas pedal. Without thinking, Aziraphale jammed his hands into Crowley’s and yanked hard on the steering wheel. The Bentley screeched as it pivoted to the right, momentarily balancing on two wheels.   
The angel felt the presence beside him go jagged, and control was promptly wrenched from his grasp.

“HEAVEN’S BELLS AZIRAPHALE, WE’RE ON A HIGHWAY,” Crowley roared, all semblance of tranquility gone in an instant, “AND WHAT DID I SAY? WHAT DID I BLOODY SAY ABOUT GROUND RULES?!”

“We can’t ride into that!” Aziraphale squawked back, “We’ll be discorporated!”

“No we won’t,” Crowley’s knuckles went white on the wheel as he wrestled to correct their course, “Not if I have anything to say about it!”

The inferno was nearing. Aziraphale felt Crowley grow next to him. The horrible, smelly frog-man was shrieking repeatedly, and had been since their abrupt zig-zag. It was such a detestable sound. Aziraphale couldn’t deal with all this at once. He lashed out, cuffing the hellspawn with an ethereal wing. This stopped the screaming quite quickly, only for shouting to take its place.

“Crowley–“ howled Hastur, hysterically, “That– That– That was a holy presence! First the water, now– now you’re hiding a bloody angel in your pocket?!”

“Shut up,” Crowley snapped, “I’m concentrating!”

“You’re mad!” screamed Hastur, “You’re– You’re–“

And then they were out of the proverbial frying pan. Hastur burst into flames like a glob of livid tar and dissolved into the seat with a final rending of vocal chords. Aziraphale felt like they might be sick.

“Oh stars– Oh my stars– We’re going to melt before we hit a mile!” 

“Don’t say that, we’re going to be fine. I’ve had this car from new. She’s not. Going. To burn.”

“You can’t just ignore physics, Crowley!” Aziraphale tried to reach for control again, but found that Crowley’s Effrontery had grown so large and dense that it was almost physically pushing against the angel, keeping him from getting in. To his surprise, it was oddly soft. And warm. And beating, like wings. Like a heart. The other, outer heat intensified. Aziraphale felt a lump rise in their throat, “Crowley, I don’t want you to–“

“Just believe in me, Angel,” Crowley hissed back, raggedly, “For once, just believe in me.”

For once? Another wave of guilt washed over the Principality. He had no reason not to believe in him. He’d never broken a promise. Never cheated a deal. Never failed to show up, just in the nick of time. Not for Aziraphale. 

“We– W-we’re going to be fine,” said the angel, tremulously.

“That’s right,” said Crowley, through gritted teeth, “Not a scratch. Not a dent. Not a chip of paint.”

“A-and no warping, for that matter,” continued Aziraphale, slightly more boldly. 

Was it his imagination, or was it getting cooler?

“She’s a hale old motor,” said Crowley, nodding tensely, “She’s been through the blitz.”

“And the Internal Conflict,” Aziraphale chimed in.

“And the eighties!” cried Crowley, with relish.

There it was. That old fervour. The spark that lit Crowley when he was at his finest. Made him sparkle. The angel felt it thrill beside him, and his heart lifted in their chest.   
Aziraphale pushed back against Crowley’s aura with his own Grace, warm and bright and tender. He wasn’t trying to push it out. Quite the contrary. At first it resisted, bewildered. Then it fluttered, almost nervously. 

“Uhm, angel,” muttered Crowley, who was suddenly finding it very difficult to concentrate on not catching on fire, “Are you trying to. Unite with me?”

The angel in question felt blood rise quickly up to Crowley’s hollow cheeks and hunched their shoulders.

“Well. I-I just thought. It’s not– not meant to be intimate, mind you -no time to take you out for dinner anyway, ha-ha- b-but I just thought we might be, you know, stronger. Together.”

“Ah, yeah. Right.” Crowley’s Crowliness continued to flicker, “Wasn’t it Pure with Pure, though?”

“Well, we didn’t explode before. So we probably won’t now. Look, just– yes, or no, before I lose my nerve!”

“Wah–Yeh–Ah–Yes! Yes, alright,” Crowley spluttered, “Right, okay, how’s it–?”

“Not quite sure. Never done it myself. Not many opportunities what with–“

“Probably just got to–“

“Yes, you know, and–“

“And then just a smidge to the left–“

“–To the right, dear boy–“

The Bentley began to hum and tremble, rattling on its chassis as it barrelled through the flames. A faint glow began to emanate from the windows, which soon grew brighter– so bright that it drowned out the light of the flames, forcing them back. It was colourless. Or perhaps it was a colour that humans couldn’t perceive. Whatever it was, it began to crackle, and froth, and then, with an almighty crash, a bolt of energy ripped down the length of the highway, snapping like a broken fuse.  
The Bentley travelled along it, suspended in a halo of boiling, panicking force. The force of Pure and Impure attempting something neither was entirely built for, and yet, nonetheless, succeeding. 

There is a fairly famous video of several Japanese boys setting up a farcical little tableau with a paper plate, a corn dog, and an Apple iPhone. The boys place the corn dog on the plate, pour a decent amount of Monster Energy Drink™ over it, and then solemnly plug a charging cable into the resulting dish. The attached iPhone promptly lights up, at which point the boys go absolutely wild. If we suspend our disbelief as to the veracity of this video, it makes a fairly neat comparison to what was going on inside the Bentley. Crowley and Aziraphale are not meant to pair together like this, in the same way a corn dog is not meant to cooperate with a charging cable, as it is not a wall socket. But then, both the corn dog and the wall socket are made of atoms, just like everything else in the universe, including the charging cable. Sometimes, when times are tough, you make do.

Bursting out of the other end of the inferno, the Bentley’s wheels skidded in the dust, kicking up a great cloud of it, which mingled with the black smoke pouring off its outer casing. 

\- - -

R.P. Tyler, Chairman of Lower Taddfield’s Residents’ Association, had been having a good evening. The storm had cleared up, he’d had his dinner, read over the paper again, and completed another sternly-worded letter to the Taddfield Advertiser. Then he’d gone out to walk Shutzi, and it had all gone wrong.

It started with those hoodlums. Four of them, on their noisy motorbikes. They’d ridden in like a whirlwind, paid no heed to his furious shouting, mucked up the air with their exhaust and dropped litter all over the place. And then they’d had the nerve– the gall– to ask him directions to the airbase! He’d given them, of course -he did so like to explain things- but he was still scandalized at the complete lack of any sort of decorum. Then again, they were Americans.

But that wasn’t it. Oh no. Things had only just begun to go south. Another four bikers came pedalling down the road, soon after the first. These four, however, were children, though that did not diminish the threat. They happened to be a rather infamous gang of children. Adam Young and his little circle of cronies, ‘The Them’, as they called themselves. They were the kind of hellions who hopped fences and went scrumping and played all manner of strange and unwholesome ‘games’. Lord knew where their parents were. (Well, so did Mr. Tyler, actually, and he often spoke to them disapprovingly. But it was a rhetorical gripe.)  
The children had been rude, as usual, brazenly disregarding his authority and speeding off before he could reprimand them properly. Not to mention the way the Young boy’s animal had been eyeing Shutzi.

So when a large, black, gently-smouldering Bentley -the kind he’d known in his youth- pulled up beside him, he barely flinched. He might as well be accosted a third time. That’s just how it was these days; civilization was crumbling around last bastions of propriety like himself, and all he could do was fight the good fight. Just another battle for this old solider. Nothing to write home about (but plenty for the Taddfield Advertiser.)  
Then the window rolled down. A man in a dark, expensive-looking suit leaned out of it, and his eyes. Oh dear god. His eyes. They were glowing. Not in the literary sense of delight or health; they were actually glowing like the headlamps on the front of his car. White, and blank, and staring. There was a placid smile underneath them.

“Excuse me,” said the man, pleasantly, “I’m sorry, I’ve managed to get a little lost. Can you direct me to the Lower Taddfield Airbase? I know it’s around here somewhere…”

‘There is something very wrong with your eyes.’

Tyler wanted to tell him. Very badly. But it just wasn’t possible for the man not to know. How did one develop such a terrifying -condition? injury? disease?- such a terrifying feature without noticing it at some point? No, this man surely knew. Surely. The smoke issuing from his car made Tyler’s eyes sting.

“You’ve missed a turn about a mile back. The sign post blew down, you see,” he said, hoarsely.

“Oh! That must be it!” the man’s smile stretched into a beam, which gave his face an even more unsettling cast, “Cracking! Thank you very much!”

“Watch– watch out for delinquents!” Tyler found himself saying as the man leaned back into his car, “The place is crawling with them today!”

“Oh? I haven’t noticed any…” said the man thoughtfully, before waving, winding up the window and setting off. 

“Probably because of your complete lack of pupils!” shouted R. P. Tyler, furiously, but his voice was lost in the acrid black trail of smog.

\- - -

The Bentley screeched to a halt, still looking rather good for a car that had braved a gauntlet of raging Odegran flames. Sure, it was a little scuffed, and charred around the edges, but it was mainly in one piece, and just as black as always. Possibly due to the smoke. 

The door cracked open and expelled the driver, who scrambled to his feet, clumsily. Just ahead, he could make out a shouting guard and four children on bikes entering the Taddfield Airbase.

“Right on the money,” he breathed, “It’s one of them…”

He leaned back into the car and wrapped his fingers around the tire iron sitting under the passenger seat. It would do. He stumbled forward. 

“Hey! You!” the guard by the gate had spotted him, attention torn from the children, “Stop! You are not authorized to be here!”

“I jolly well… don’t give a bumming fuck,” wheezed the Bentley’s ex-occupant, “A fucking… bum… Get out of the way.”

With a finger snap, the guard disappeared. So did the gate. Completely. The entity hiccuped.

“Oopsie,” he giggled nervously, “Bit of an overkill.”

He lurched into the airbase. There was a commotion going on. Four children and four adults were facing each other, like some sort of mismatched standoff. The children were brandishing sticks and shouting. And then the adults began to melt, starting with the one in the bright red leathers. There was a loud clang as she dropped something. A long, shining sword, wreathed in flames.

“My sword!” 

The man-shaped-thing tossed away his tire-iron like a bride tosses her bouquet, jubilant at the sight of the old slash-and-flasher. What a stroke of luck! Fancy it turned up here, and now…  
Three fourths of the adults had melted, now, leaving only one left. He was saying something grand and ominous.

“D’ough, that’s ghastly,” gurgled the entity as he reached them, giving the bubbling carnage a leery stare. Then he focused properly on the lone survivor and gaped in surprise. 

“Ahh wahhh look, it’s– it’s Azrael! What are you doing here, old chap?”

Death flashed the shambling, black-suited man a cold, quizzical stare, before opening wings of oblivion and disappearing. 

“Hmm probably reaping. Probably. Melted people don’t tend to be, um, not dead.”

After a moment of contemplation, the entity’s blank, glowing eyes slid to one of the boys standing beside the ex-people-sludge.

“Oh. That one’s got a Feeling,” he said, intently, “That’s got to be him. Okay. Sword, sword–“

He dropped to the ground and reached for the blade.

“Eugh, oh no. I’ve trodden in them.”

“Adam, is that another one?” asked one of the children, warily.

“Actually, I don’t think there IS a fifth horseman,” piped up another. 

Dog was barking. Adam shook his head.

“No. He’s not like them. He’s just being very silly, I think.”

“Alright, got the sword.”

The entity sprung up and puffed out his chest. He was about to say something impressive, smite the boy in one painless stroke, and save the world. Then he realized he was a boy. Well– He knew he was a boy. Only eleven years since he’d dropped him off with the Chattering Order, after all, but… He was a boy-boy. An apple-cheeked, tousle-haired, muddy-kneed village boy who looked so, so small standing with the other children, who must be his friends. Since when had eleven-year-olds looked so small? And so harmless…

“Oh no… Absolutely not,” the entity looked grey in the face, “Not kids. I can’t kill kids. I’m supposed to be the good guy.”

“You need to stop that,” said Adam, frowning in slight perturbation, “I don’t think you know what you’re doing. And it’s kind of gross. You should be two people again.”

And then they were. Just two men side-by-side, in a sort of semi-embrace. 

“Guaaahh,” gurgled the narrow one as he stumbled back. He seemed to be the owner of the initial body and its handsome black suit.

“Oh, gracious,” whimpered the round one, patting his chest, and then pressing a hand over his mouth.

Both looked rather flustered, and a little traumatized.

“That’s better,” said Adam.

The remaining adults -separate from the ones that had just disappeared or melted into the tarmac- stood some ways away, just beside the communications building, watching the events unfold.

“What was that?” whispered Newton Pulsifer, who was gripping Anathema Device’s hand very tightly.

“To be honest,” she replied, “I don’t want to know.”


End file.
